Here, in the wild parts of the world -
here, where humans do not come, and crows do not fly,
nor hares creep, and where ship-banners are furled
(when indeed they dare to come at all) - here, in the wild, I lie.

There is a curious sort of mist that hangs above the world:
sheer, thick as cobwebs, unyielding as an infant's cry.
It envelopes the dead lands, the mountains, the curled
frozen shores that once, long ago, lived. If I sigh
into it, it does nothing but murmur back, muttering of the world.

Be it so that, far beyond this clouded sky,
words are stronger than I? I have been too long furled.

Dragons, dreams, ancient stories hurled
against the bones of Time, and Time's eye,
watching, mocking, the interwoven histories curled
upon each other. I am myth, a fading cry
of what was. The memories have been furled,
bound tight, entombed... Still - here, in the wild, I lie:
here, in the wild parts of the world.